


Only The Stars

by allofuswithwings



Category: Muse (Band)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Death, M/M, Madness, Origin of Symmetry Era, Sexual Violence, Tragedy, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:21:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27629474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allofuswithwings/pseuds/allofuswithwings
Summary: His hand goes over the blade that skewers him and he wants to ask why. Matt’s mouth is against his again, though he can barely feel it.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 2





	Only The Stars

**Author's Note:**

> Imported from Livejournal/Dreamwidth. Originally posted November 2009.
> 
> Based on an interview response from Matt I once saw, to a question about their stage shows: “Anything could happen. I could go crazy. I could kill Dom. I could fuck Chris.”

One, two, three, four steps across the stage. The howl of guitar feedback, song over.

But he shouldn’t be leaving, not yet. The blonde frowns, a confused smile on his lips.

Matt is side stage, pushing his guitar off, reaching for something else. There is a determination in his stride when he returns with what he was looking for.

Dom smirks as Matt approaches him, eyeing the blade in its sheath. The singer kicks aside half the kit, pushing cymbals over with a wiry arm.

His legs fly over the kick drum. He tackles Dom to the ground, fingers still tight around the handle. The blonde laughs. He doesn’t know.

Matt’s mouth upon his, hard, wet. Confusion and the struggle of a hand against Matt’s shirt. They’ve never kissed before. Never wanted to.

The singer pulls back, half stands. He grabs Dom by his shirt, hauling him up too. His fingers slip the sheath off the sword. The drummer wobbles, bewildered.

“I love you.”

Matt’s words are heart-felt, a sadness in his eyes. The drummer feels a quick, startling pain and coughs as he looks down. He didn’t see Matt move his arm, the blade puncturing through under his ribcage.

Dom meets Matt’s eyes again, his vision blurring. He lets out a groan and coughs. This time there’s blood, wet and metallic in his mouth. It splatters over his lips and down his chin.

His hand goes over the blade that skewers him and he wants to ask why. Matt’s mouth is against his again, though he can barely feel it.

Then a hot, white pain as the metal is wrenched from him. He collapses against the kit. Everything grows dark.

Matt turns, shirt soaked in red, smeared across his mouth. He feels the tears stinging his eyes, heart clenched in his chest.

He looks to see the bass player standing agape, the noise from the guitar still carrying on. But there’s another music in his head, pounding and melancholic. It’s always been there, it never stops.

Matt’s thin fingers pull at his own clothes. The fabric tears, clinging to his skin, slick with blood. His belt jangles and he’s free of it. His hand wipes down his chest and abdomen. It sticks as it starts to dry.

There’s thudding as Chris struggles to free himself from his bass, eyes wild. Yanks, stumbles from the instrument. But he’s too slow. There’s a sharp pain across the back of his legs and he falls.

Matt swings again, cutting another shallow line over both thighs so he can’t get up. Then he’s upon him, sword discarded. He only wanted Chris for this, but now it’s gone further. It has to go to the end.

His hand shoves Chris’s head to the floor with a sickening thump, suitably dazed. Matt’s nails scramble at the side of his trousers, pulling, breaking belt and buttons. Jerked down forcibly to give space, further, enough for this.

Seeing Chris trying to get away was sufficient, his body is ready. Matt’s reddened lips part to release a heavy groan as he pushes in, Chris’s mirror with a howl.

And, _oh_ , it’s too much. So much good he never knew.

Matt heaves, shoves, sticky with sweat and blood. One hand claws the back of Chris’s head, pulling at his hair. Faster, filling him up with what he always wanted. Something, everything, anything at all. Just to feel _something_.

His balled fist bangs Chris’s head against the floor, Chris spits blood. He gasps, begs him to stop. There’s no stopping now. Matt has no rewind, no brakes, no nothing. There’s no going back.

Matt’s hand yanks back violently, and there’s a snap as he reaches that precipice. Chris’s body convulses and tightens under him in its last throes, and good _God_ , it’s wonderful.

Matt empties himself, the explosion inside his body almost too much to bear. He moans.

He settles, trembling, whimpering. Chris’s eyes stare straight ahead, glazing over already. Matt brushes the hair from his temple affectionately.

“There’s no more.”

He struggles to his feet, a gasp as he pulls free. Fingers close around the handle he wants. Matt presses the other hand to his face, tongue swiping over fingers.

The smell of blood makes his head hurt. He hears the roar of the crowd and staggers to the middle of the stage. He looks up and lifts his arm.

Matt is falling, the blade rushing through him with sweet relief. He can see planets, moons, tails of comets and spirals of galaxies. The taste of blood in his mouth is not there. Nor is the crippling ache through his ribcage, or the struggle of his lungs.

It’s only the stars.

And the black.


End file.
